Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

More like this, Fergal, I said and shot him in the other elbow, aiming for the fleshy parts. His body convulsed and there was just the bleeding and the feathers and a low moan from the wife.

I remembered to breathe again.

It was a terrible thing. It had been ugly. Kicking someone, punching them, is one thing but shooting an unconscious man six times is something else. A mate, too.

All three of us got up. We stood there, stunned.

Six shots, Belfast six-pack, Scotchy said in a whisper, and a gurgle that apparently was laughter came into his mouth. Fergal nodded and broke into a smile.

Always wondered what that meant. Is that really how they do it, Michael? he asked, quietly awed.

That, Fergal, is how they do it, I said clinically, as if it was all second nature to me now, as if I’d maybe seen it dozens of times. Perhaps it was even a little tedious. Of course I’d never done it, seen it once and had been sick for a week. Fergal looked at me in a new light. I was quite the cold motherfucker. He would spread it around too. Even Scotchy, I could see, was a bit appalled by what we had accomplished. Last time in the Four P. Shovel had bought us all a round.

Their discomfort was an opportunity and I took it.

Let’s go, I said and opened the door. The others followed. Scotchy was going to kick him on the way out but he felt bad now and didn’t. We were spattered with blood, but it was night and the car was just outside. Scotchy was shaking and trying not to show it. He handed me the keys.

You drive, he said.

I wasn’t used to driving on the right, but I took the keys and started her up. I headed back. There was a McDonald’s drive-through and I saw this as another opportunity. I turned the wheel.

You boys want anything? I asked. I’m narving.

Scotchy was pale in the front seat. Fergal dry-heaving now in the back. Both shook their heads. I pulled in and ordered a Big Mac meal and ate it as I drove. Fergal would spread this around too. It would reach Sunshine. It would reach Darkey. It might even reach Mr. Duffy. We stopped outside the Four Provinces and went in to get cleaned up. Bridget took my clothes. Andy was no better.

I seriously think you should take him to the hospital, I said.

Scotchy was in no mood to argue now and Mrs. Callaghan dialed the number. I showered and waited until the paramedics came.

When we were alone, I found Bridget and kissed her.

I absolutely have to see you, I said.

She didn’t say anything.

Tomorrow, I said.

I don’t know, Michael, she said.

For God’s sake, Bridget, we’ve both been through the mill. Tomorrow, please. Come on, we’ll do something fun.

She nodded her head ambiguously and went downstairs.

I stood there for a moment. Was she tiring of me? Would she come? Who knew? I shook my head wearily and followed her down.

I had a free pint off Pat and drank it and chatted about the upcoming English football season, ate some Tayto crisps, and went down the steps and caught the train…

All over.

Done.

You got through.

You got through. Ugly, but it was Scotchy’s fault, not yours. No.

You look for that paperback about the Russian guy but it’s gone. You sit in the subway car and you think. Not your fault. Not your fault. The train rattles and it nearly rocks you off to sleep. It stops at the stop and doesn’t move again. After a while a man comes with information. There’s a problem on the line and you have to get off at 137th. You get out and they give you a useless transfer.

It’s dark now in Harlem.

You walk down the hill from City College and St. Nicholas Park. The streets are empty. No junkies, no hookers, no undercover cops, no delivery boys, no workers, no nothing. Bodegas are shut and barricaded. The moon. The deserted avenue. The tremendous sleeping buildings and the rusted octopi of fire escapes. It is still warm and Harlem is all around and comforting. It’s straight here. Simple. You know how things stand. You know who you are and who they are. You know your place. You know how things will be. You know everything. You can exist here without pressure, without history. You can be anonymous.

It’s a pleasant walk down Amsterdam. A gypsy cab comes by and honks. You look at it and nod. It stops. You get in. Three bucks to 123rd and Amsterdam, you say.

The man nods, smiles.

Some day, huh, he says.

You don’t reply. But in the silence you agree and look out of the window.

That should have been it. The night should have ended there-but it didn’t. Instead it got dragged out into a jazz of drink and craic and bars and cars. I was asleep and abed only about forty minutes when they came calling in their transport. A big yellow van that they must have borrowed. Guy called Marley driving, whom I’d never previously encountered and after that evening did not meet again until the night, several months later in real time and an epoch in psychological time, when I put a screwdriver through his throat and he went down into the embrace of the soft Westchester snow without even a whimper.

Even though I was knackered it was deemed necessary that I be got up and forced to join in the jollity, for Darkey, when he was on a bender or even a mild celebration, was like a Jack ashore, everyone possible was to be brought within the compass of his merriment. And I, after all, was the star of the evening or so they all kept saying. Sunshine, Big Bob, and Darkey had arrived at the Four Provinces-after their important chin wag-not too long after I’d buggered off home following our own little escapade. Darkey and Big Bob had been drinking, so Sunshine was driving them back (though Marley was doing the actual driving). They’d all ended up in the lounge bar of the Four P. intercepting Scotchy and Fergal just as they were belting one for the road. They were both the worse for drink, but somehow Sunshine got the story out of them and with indignation Darkey had asked how they could have let me go back home on the subway when clearly I was the hero of the hour for my coolness in dealing with Shovel. Darkey is, if anything, a man of the whim and he decided that all of them were going to the hospital right that minute to see poor Andy; and then that done, they were all going to go down to Harlem and call on and subsequently fete me.

Jesus. Poor me.

Like I say, I was only asleep forty minutes but I was away, already reasonably untroubled by conscience or anything else. Yeah, I was off somewhere, but resistance was useless.

They didn’t get in to see Andy but they came on down to 123rd Street anyway. They rang my buzzer, but I had the fan on and cotton wool stuffed in my ears to keep out the racket from east of here.

Come on you fucking lazy wee hoor’s spawn bastard. It’s us. We’re fucking doing a Petula, Scotchy was no doubt screaming through the intercom. They buzzed for about ten seconds and then Darkey’s patience must have got the better of him for he told Big Bob to jemmy the lock, which Big Bob did. They probably would have broken my door down had I not finally heard their cackling and yelling and banging. For some reason I thought it was a bunch of drunk Serbians up from Ratko’s pad to raise hell and I went to the door with a metal baseball bat in my hand and a revolver in my boxer shorts.

They laughed when I opened up the door. Boxers, Zoso T-shirt, gun, baseball bat, hair askew, snarl on face.

Darkey leaned forward and punched me on the arm.

Well done, you wee fucker, he said.

Darkey, who had never been to Ireland in his life but who took on a bit of the accent and manner when he was around Scotchy and myself. It was terrifying.

They dressed me in jeans and boots and leather jacket and hauled me out into the night, dragging me downstairs violently. For just a second or two I thought that perhaps all this bonhomie was a cover and really they were going to drive me down to the Hudson and shoot me in the back of the neck. No, worse. First, Darkey kicks my face in and then when it’s a bloody mess and I’m blinded and brains are coming out my ears, Scotchy says: I’m very disappointed in you, son. And then he fucking tops me.